Seven Innings
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: JJ tries, and stumbles, repeatedly on his quest for love. In the end, it takes a village. [Post-series, OMCs/JJ, Drake/JJ, Berkley/JJ, etc.]
1. A Tish of Jimmy

The day Dee and Ryo come out at work (for the precious few who haven't already figured it out), Drake shakes their hands and congratulates them. He sorts the data for two unsolved cases and wraps up a minor burglary report on his own. Takeout Chinese for dinner, vegetable lo mein and an egg roll. He calls his girlfriend to let her know he's got to cancel. Then he gathers his files, rents _Harvey_ from the video store, and buys two tubs of Ben and Jerry's AmeriCone Dream.

He pulls up to the apartment building around eleven at night. Even with the blinds drawn, he can see the lights on in JJ's living room.

JJ answers the door in a blue bathrobe, one of his bedroom slippers missing and his eyes puffy and red-rimmed. "Oh," he says, faintly. "I love you."

Drake grins and flourishes a plastic spoon at him.

Most important things go first. JJ snatches one of the ice cream buckets from him, clutching it like a lifeline—it probably is, considering JJ's too conscious of his wallet to buy sweets regularly, and too conscious of his appearance to buy them looking like he's a wreck. "Sweet heaven," mumbles JJ, ripping off the lid unceremoniously. He shoves a spoonful in his mouth, closes his eyes, and makes a tiny whimpering noise.

Then he remembers to step aside and let Drake into the apartment.

JJ's apartment is a lot neater than Drake's place, but it's less lived-in, too. There are still boxes waiting to be unpacked from his move from L.A., stacked in the corner with their lids flapping wide open. The kitchen is the most comfortable, and most used, of any of the rooms—yellow and open, boxes of ammo mixed in with the silverware. They bypass it for the living room, which is normally tidy—the throw over the sofa positioned just so because otherwise it drives JJ crazy, and a set of tasteful lamps and pillows that are color-coordinated—and homey-cheerful in the way Drake's mother used to be, before the cancer. He likes JJ's place. Every time he comes over, something new is on the walls, something strictly Jemmy J. Adams. Besides, Drake knows no one else who has the balls to keep a rifle under their mattress (as it's both dangerous and uncomfortable). And the story behind Drake discovering that is best left untouched, much like the rifle itself.

Right now, there's tissue boxes littering the carpet and an empty pizza box on the coffee table. A far cry from normalcy. Drake moves aside the red comforter on the couch and surveys the damage. "Wow," he says. "You left me to work all by myself without a word, for this?"

"Don't even," warns JJ, the ice cream carton tucked under one arm as he digs into the plastic sack Drake had waved at him. He pulls out the VHS tape and smiles, brief but honest. "Jeez, you brought me Jimmy Stewart."

"Well. You told me he was the cure for heartbreak once. I think."

"And aren't you a very good listener?" JJ waggles a finger at him. "You, mister, have just earned a place on my top five favorite things list. I'm even gonna let you eat some of this ice cream."

"I _did_ bring two tubs."

"Like I said."

There's a show about schools of fish on the television right now, muted, the Discovery Channel logo in the corner. JJ puts in _Harvey_ and the screen goes dark. "You don't want to talk?" asks Drake, watching him.

"Nope. Not even a bit," JJ affirms. "No sir, I'll do plenty of talkin' about Jimmy-darling's eyes, and his perfect voice and his lost cause of a hair-do, but that's it."

"Do you have to do it out loud?"

"Oh, Jimmy. Leave your invisible rabbit, I'll be your snuggle bunny."

Drake laughs. After a while of partnering with JJ, he's figured out that's all you can do sometimes. "C'mon," he says, patting the comforter blob next to him. "You can snuggle with me for a while, if you promise to keep your hands to yourself."

JJ smiles at him again, wobbly and sweet. "Aww. Drake. I…" Then he wraps up in his blanket and settles on the sofa. True to his word, Drake stretches his arm out and JJ fits there, overheated but small, curled up to Drake's side with the ice cream still lovingly clutched at hand. "Thanks," mumbles JJ, once he's draped himself comfortably.

"Eh, whatever. Don't mention it." Drake pauses. "I mean that—don't, dude."

JJ sniffles and then barks a laugh.

They watch the movie for a while, JJ making pointed comments at the screen that either send Drake chuckling or groaning to himself. The ice cream melts fast, but it's funny watching JJ try to drink it like a shake. When they're both sticky, sleepy, and the credits are rolling, Drake squeezes JJ all gentle-like and says, "You're gonna be okay."

JJ sighs. "I know. It's not like I didn't already know."

"Yeah."

"It's just different, when you can have a little hope. If Ryo wasn't gonna come out and just… say it, then maybe…" JJ falls silent, and then goes, "Oh well. It's like you said, Drake- _senpai_. Plenty of fish in the sea."

That reminds Drake of their conversation and its abrupt ending on the rooftop a few months ago. He shifts, uneasy. "Yeah, well… There are tons, believe me. You'll find another guy. A gay guy," he adds, unnecessarily, but hey, better safe than sorry. He quite emphatically does not think about the kiss they shared ( _brief, airy, the jaw line all wrong_ ).

JJ hums, fingering Drake's sleeve. "You know why I like Jimmy?" he finally asks.

"Er. Well. You said… what, his eyes and stuff, right?"

"He's always the guy that keeps pushing the envelope," JJ tells him, uncharacteristically quiet. "In this film, he just keeps believing, even when everyone is telling him he's crazy. Guys who pick themselves back up are easy maintenance, you know? That's what I was always told. It made me so happy 'cause I thought I was already like that. I really wanted to be the kind of guy everyone wanted to be around. I figured, that's an easy type to love." His voice catches. "Piece of cake, see?"

Drake doesn't know exactly what to say to that. He goes with his gut, which has gotten him far enough in his job, at least. "JJ, you're…"

"What?"

"You're definitely not easy maintenance," Drake finishes lamely.

JJ stills. And then, burying his face into Drake's shoulder, he bursts out laughing. "Oh," he hiccups, punching Drake, "that's… You're priceless, Drake- _senpai_!"

"Um. Sorry."

"No, don't—" and he's breathless, and still worn from crying, but he's got that shine back in him that makes Drake feel like JJ is a hundred years younger than he could ever hope to be. "I needed to hear that. And the movie and the ice cream—you're a good buddy, Drake. You're way too nice to me."

Drake pats his back. "Sure, sure. I just knew you'd feel like crap after… y'know, the whole thing." He looks up, embarrassed for a reason he can't pinpoint. "Look, partners watch out for each other."

JJ squeezes him, oddly gentle. "When do I get to watch out for you, Drake?"

The question, for all its surface levity, is a serious one. Drake blinks and glances back down at JJ, only to find his stare caught and affixed. He's always known JJ to be a minefield of emotions. But sometimes, like now, his partner seems to be filled with a single-minded intensity, as if the entire world has narrowed down to the case file sitting before them, the target behind his rifle lens, and in this moment, the flustered expression of Drake's face. It's impossible to look away.

Drake used to wonder how Dee ever resisted being caught by that look. As if being swung up by hooks and thread, Drake feels like he's dangled, helpless and bereft. He's always known it, but somehow—yes, JJ is almost beautiful.

JJ tilts his head. "Drake," he murmurs.

But the thought of Dee has somehow done it. Drake shakes his head, not unkindly, and ruffles JJ's hair with his free hand. "Right now, it's about you. You'll get a chance later, I bet. But right now… I just want you to talk to me, buddy. About whatever you need to."

Like a light gone out, JJ lets the fire die behind his eyes. He closes them and hugs Drake. "I don't know…"

"Just say what you need to say, man. That's all."

"But—"

"You can trust me," Drake tells him, because if there's one thing he's always known, it's that JJ does trust him. It's a fact Drake hopes to never abuse.

And he doesn't tonight. JJ speaks, at first haltingly and then with great difficulty, and finally through tears that aren't always so much upset as they are nostalgic. He tells Drake about Dee. Drake knows plenty about Dee, but he doesn't know Dee through JJ, and today he gets his crash course. JJ tells him about the Academy, about how he can't hate Ryo, and all the stupid but heart-warm dreams he's had for the future that's not going to come. Truth be told, listening to him, Drake can see for the first time why JJ loves Dee Laytner so passionately. For the first time, it feels real, not just a farce—that's why Drake can mourn with him for what's been lost, because it's real to JJ.

(The tiny pang he feels of annoyance tinged with envy, that he'll ignore. More truth be told, listening to JJ makes Drake feel like he could fall in love with Dee, too—but it's not Dee that captures him, it's not Dee that Drake puts to bed well past two, well past the point where Drake's body aches to follow, to soothe, to _touch_ deeper.)

He sits in the dark well after, trying to swallow the taste of ice cream. Abruptly, Drake feels as though everything is going to change, and he's not ready at all.


	2. Something Borrowed

The groom's danced with his bride and the cake is cut before Dee slips away from the reception. He kisses Ryo's cheek, shares an understanding smile with him, and grabs his coat from the entrance hall. It's summer, a warm night for a wedding, but there have been gray clouds in the sky from the start—if he'd believed in more superstitions than ghosts, Dee might've called it an omen.

Outside, the merry noises are muted, and the waning evening is a vast contrast from the brightly colored decorations. Dee lights up a cigarette. He's gonna need some nicotine to handle this.

He spent most of his years at the Academy trying to avoid the kid, but Dee _had_ known him well, despite that. You can't spend that much time together and not pick up a few tips, especially as a detective in the making. It takes only a couple of minutes to find JJ—his wine-red socks, sticking out from behind a bush of all things, give him away.

Dee rambles up to the wall, avoiding the window that looks into the celebration he'd just deserted, and leans against the bricks. Below him, JJ is slumped, head tipped back against the same stones and legs stretched out in the uncultivated green grass. His shoes are knotted together at the laces and thrown over his shoulder. "You'll get dirt stains on your new trousers," Dee finally says, for lack of any graceful way to begin a conversation with JJ that might actually make sense.

JJ glances up at him. Dee isn't surprised that his eyes aren't pink or swollen. JJ only cries for either the unimportant things or the truly, awfully, life-important things. "Really," he answers, noncommittal, and that doesn't surprise Dee either.

"Here, gimme me a swig."

JJ passes the half-empty bottle of champagne without comment.

It's not bad stuff. In fact, it's probably the best name out of the mini-bar. Of course, JJ has always had good taste. It's part of his upbringing, Dee figures, or maybe that's just making excuses. Either way, that good taste has never seemed to bring the guy much fortune, so Dee can't get petty over it. It's no surprise that the drink's a little bitter. Suitable, honestly. Dee wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then returns the alcohol to its rightful owner (or original thief, if he thinks about it).

"You gonna sulk out here all night or what?" he asks.

"Or what," echoes JJ, taking a long pull for himself. His throat works to take it down, his fingers tight enough about the neck of the bottle to milk his knuckles dry of color. "Y'know," he says, afterwards, "I really thought it was gonna work this time, Dee- _senpai_."

"Me, too," Dee admits. "I really did, JJ."

"Is it just me?"

"Nah. It's bad luck, that's all." He flicks his cigarette, scattering the ashes, and gives up against the urge to ruffle JJ's hair. "There's more men in the world than just me and him. Plenty of fish and all that, right?"

"That's what he said," says JJ, soft-like. Dee grimaces.

"Uh. Sorry."

"Oh—no, it's okay. It's a good memory. At least I have them." JJ smiles up at him, half-hearted but more sincere than Dee would be in his position. Then again, JJ's had the better practice. "I spent half my life without the guy of my dreams, I guess I can do it a little longer."

"Yeah."

"Just… not too much longer," JJ says.

"Aw, man. Don't do that." Dee crouches next to him, rubbing out his cigarette on the ground and gathering JJ up in his other arm. He hugs him—not carefully like he would Ryo, but hard and fierce, because JJ's always been able to take things like that. He could fit three of himself into Dee's embrace, but he's got enough grit in him for that many people, too. It's what makes him a good officer. And, Dee has figured out over the past year, a good friend.

Dee almost wishes he could break. It's easier to sweep up pieces than it is to try and keep using a fractured drinking cup and all that, right? But JJ isn't a cup, he's JJ, and Dee's perversely glad he's stronger than this.

"I don't get it," whispers JJ against Dee's shirt. He lets the champagne drop. It rolls away from them, sloshing in the coming dark. "It's not fair, Dee- _senpai_. You can't fake stuff like that. I don't—I don't _understand_."

Dee jostles him a bit. "Yeah, but look at how happy he is," he says quietly. "You can't fake that, either. He's really happy, JJ."

And now JJ cries.

"Hey, hey… None of that. Shh." He wishes Ryo were here to tell him what to do, but then, if Ryo were here there wouldn't be this problem. They knew that. That's why it's Dee, because Dee knows enough to at least keep hugging JJ, and that he can't lie and say it's going to be okay. "C'mon," he instead protests, "you'll get my jacket damp. And hell if you're gonna go in there all weepy like some jilted lover, even if you are. That's no way for an Adams to act."

It works. JJ giggles wetly. "You know other Adams?"

"Sure. A freakin' shitload of Adams. Didn't seem them sobbing none."

"Uh-huh." JJ pulls back, patting Dee with a fond hand. "You really are Mr. Perfect, y'know that?"

He doesn't say it like he used to—a little sadder, a little warmer, an entire world's difference. This time, Dee doesn't get pissed off because the silly endearment. Rather, it makes him feel uncomfortable in a new way, like he's just gotten a compliment he has no idea what to do with. "Eh, shut up," he mutters, running a hand through JJ's tousled mop again. "Wipe your damn eyes and rescue the booze. Then we'll go back inside and you can congratulate Drake's success."

JJ wipes his eyes, dutiful to the last. "Do I have to?"

"That's up to you," Dee tells him kindly. "Do you want this to ruin your partnership? Because if you do, by all means, stay out here. But I don't think you want to do that, right? Otherwise you would've made a huge racket before the wedding."

JJ shakes his head. "No. I don't want… that."

"Right."

"It's his choice."

"It's his loss," says Dee. JJ squeezes his arm—either from shock or gratitude, Dee can't see his face at this angle as well—and takes a deep, shaky breath.

"All right," he mumbles, letting go. "I'm ready."

"Okay."

"God, my pants are ruined."

Dee laughs, because he knows it's going to be okay now and he doesn't have to lie about that. "It's going to be fine, you dork. C'mon, upsy-daisy." He helps pull JJ up, who sways, flushed, before steadying. "I'd stick to coffee or juice if you know what's good for you for the rest of the night."

JJ pouts. "What about punch?" Dee rolls his eyes, throws an arm around the guy's shoulders, and steers him back towards the entrance.

"I think it's more loaded than the wine."

"Stupid Ted."

"Don't forget your shoes."

"Got 'em."

"And don't forget to grin like a madman."

"Dee," says JJ patiently, "I'm going to be polite, not freakin' Doris Day. The bitch stole my lover, hi?"

Dee snickers. "Thatta boy. You'll learn the way, yet." Then he waits for JJ to wobble around getting his shoes back on, because he may need JJ to face the music, but no one ever said he has to do it alone.

Before they go inside, JJ kisses his cheek and tells him, almost bashfully, that he expects to get the title of best man if Dee and Ryo ever get married. Hours later, watching thoughtfully as Ryo keeps trying to straighten Bikky's bowtie with no degree of success, Dee considers himself sold on the idea. In both ways. Someone's going to need to pick out the tuxedos, anyway, and JJ's always had the best taste.

A week later and JJ is smiling again, albeit faintly. He can speak to Drake without getting a lost expression, or shadows, or forgetting his temper. Ryo calls it "forgotten, but never forgiven," and Dee's not so sure he's wrong. JJ tends to put issues aside well enough, but his emotions light up on his face like a projector. The better and worse of them, unfortunately.

He's a little quiet, but Dee expects that to stay this time. It's just a gut feeling he gets. Sometimes he misses the chatter, and the downcast way JJ fixes his eyes makes Dee sad, but he figures everybody at the 27th feels that way. At least JJ doesn't give up, however, and there are three new officers transferring next month. Dee will keep his hopes up where JJ can't.

(He'll never admit to personally reviewing their files, looking for someone who might want a little sunshine, and a little drama, in their lives—a Mr. Perfect who's looking to steal a heart, not borrow it and send it home bruised.)


	3. Target Locked

"He was always a meanie," JJ is complaining, reloading his pistol with deft, controlled movements. "I bet he kicked puppies in his free time. He was definitely the type. Those eyebrows."

Ryo nods patiently. "And so, you… dated him. Even though he was mean?" He doesn't get it.

"Oh, but he was a real hunk." JJ takes aim in a manner more reckless than usual, although only a fellow sharpshooter like Ryo would've been able to tell. He pulls off two shots. They hit their target and leave two neat holes behind, as opposed to the usual one. Ryo can see the heat of JJ's glare even through the goggles. "Long legs, strong hands. A redhead. A _real_ one, if you get my drift."

"Oh." Ryo goes bright red, even though years of withstanding Dee have strengthened him against blushing. "I, uh, see."

"What a jerk! Who the hell does he think he is?" demands JJ, shooting off the rest of his round. His voice is loud enough that Ryo doesn't have to strain to hear him, even over the deafening blows. " _I_ have control issues? He's the one always calling, demanding to know where I am! I have _work_ , doesn't he get that? If I have to hear one more time how I'm out screwing half the police force—"

"Wow," says Ryo.

"Argh! It makes me so _mad_ , Ryo- _senpai_!"

"Well, I definitely think you did the right thing," Ryo tells him with no small degree of sympathy. "He sounds like bad news."

"He had the nerve to ask me who I was breaking up with him for," growls JJ, yanking the clip out of his gun. "Who? Try _peace and quiet_ , man."

"Mm-hmm."

"Dennis Harper can bite me," JJ grumbles, "and not in the good way. What do you think, Ryo?"

"I think," Ryo says, trying to be delicate, "that you should stay away from dating people with names that start in D. You have to admit, you've got a bad track record with that. Maybe you should move onto… F."

JJ considers this. "Frank from Forensics is gay."

"Yes. With his eight year boyfriend."

"Nuts."

"Really, JJ, maybe you should just take a break altogether. It's only been a few months." Ryo smiles, trying to impart his support in a way that doesn't seem overbearing. He may have only come to practice shooting, but finding JJ in such a snit, he can't bring himself to leave an unlikely but true friend without a empathetic ear. Besides, Dee would scold him. For some reason, while Ryo hadn't been looking, Dee had become JJ's newest champion of sorts. If he hadn't had Dee's heart, Ryo might be jealous. "You can't expect things to work out so quickly," he adds. "These things take time."

JJ sighs, his shoulders slumping. His perfect stance loses its potential immediately. When he turns to face Ryo, he props a hand on his hip. "Ryo- _senpai_ , I've been on break pretty much for years. With the exception of Drake, of course."

"There was Dee."

"Do you really want him to count?"

Ryo concedes that without a fight. "I just think you've been so wired on finding someone to, er, date, that you might be burning yourself out too fast. Maybe you should just take it easy. See what happens."

JJ frowns and goes to sit by him. He studies his gun with a familiar eye as it rests in his lap. "I didn't think I was searching," he finally tells Ryo, his voice forlorn. "I really did like Dennis. I met him at a bar. He actually won against me in pool. And he liked Frank Sinatra and really awful Western flicks, and I liked the way he threw his head back when he laughed."

Ryo can't think of a single thing to say. Instead, he puts his hand on JJ's shoulder, squeezing it with untrained awkwardness. He's used to comforting children, not grown men, even if JJ sometimes wears the mentality of the former.

JJ weakly lifts a corner of his mouth for Ryo, then shakes his head. "No. You're right. I probably saw what I wanted to. If I hadn't, I would have noticed he was a complete jerk beforehand."

"It's okay. We all make mistakes." Ryo hesitates, and then gestures towards the target area. JJ's array of shots had been wild in the end, clustering but hardly focused. JJ follows the line of sight and grimaces at the poor reminder, and Ryo has to shake him lightly to capture his attention again. "It's a little like shooting, JJ," he says earnestly.

"Huh?"

"If you focus too long on one point, don't your eyes get tired? Don't you lose sight of your target in the first place?" Ryo tilts his head, warm to the confusion so obvious in JJ's expression. "Sometimes you have to step back and look elsewhere for a while, so that next time you're looking around, you see what was right in front of you."

JJ blinks at him.

"Oh," he finally says. "That was… really well said, Ryo- _senpai_. Like Cleo or something."

Ryo snorts. "Oh no, not me. I could never compare to the likes of Cleo," he says dryly. "You flatter me too much, JJ."

That's about the time JJ hugs him.

After the world tips back on its axis properly, and Ryo's ribs have stopped prickling, and JJ's goggles aren't wedged painfully in Ryo's collarbone, they scoot away from each other and avoid looking each other in the eye. "You gave me good advice," JJ says, light-hearted. "I guess I owe you lunch."

"Put it on the tab," Ryo mumbles, his ears and neck still pink. "I'm gonna go. Do you want me to—?"

"Aw, no. I'm fine. Pissed off, but fine." JJ flashes him a smile that's all teeth. "Thanks, Ryo."

"No problem," Ryo tells him, because it's the truth.

He leaves JJ sitting there on the bench, staring pensively at the targets and tapping his revolver against his chin as if to an unheard melody.

* * *

"What happened with that guy?" Dee demands later, cornering Ryo in the hallway. Not even a hey-how-are-you, but then again, they're beyond that now. They're also beyond asking how in the hell Dee knows, of all things, about Ryo's private chat with JJ this afternoon. In the dim lighting, Dee's eyes are still vivid green and bright, and Ryo feels his heart thump in a manner he's resigned himself to never losing. He's a lucky man. More than ever, he knows this.

Ryo studies him for a second and makes up his mind.

"Oh, JJ broke up with him. Apparently he was just _mean_ ," he informs Dee, calm and cool. "He kept yelling at him, and accusing him of sleeping around, and crowding into his personal space when it wasn't wanted. Honestly, it's a good thing JJ was smart enough to get out of the relationship. I don't fancy him running around the station, complaining about his newest black eye and how _excitable_ his boyfriend Dennis Harper is—do you?"

Dee's face goes dark and tight, and Ryo watches him stomp off with a feeling of satisfaction. His job here is done. A little name dropping will only hurt one person, after all.

(This is all he can do for JJ, really, especially when it's not enough, especially considering Ryo's already stolen his first chance at happiness—and Ryo doesn't regret that, of course, but he also cares enough that he wants JJ to find someone else to pester, and compliment, and breathe all that love into every morning and night and in between. Luck is, as it's said, meant to be spread.)


	4. Fine Things

It's another late night at the office, trying to sort out the rat nest of files that have hit his desk in the past twelve hours. Berkley curses his team of men again. Diana's going to kill him for canceling their dinner date, but he's going to kill _her_ for taking their reservations and using them, anyway. Misery is supposed to be shared; it was much like the amazing French dishes that they would have swapped up town.

Berkley really hates the sandwiches the corner store sells. It looks like that's all he'll be inhaling for the night.

He takes a coffee break, or what would qualify as one if he had coffee. The machine's busted again and the filters are old, anyway. He reminds himself to put money aside in the budget for a new one—replacing some other request that mattered only to one of the detectives of the Criminal Investigations unit. Maybe Parker's plea for a new computer. He considers the merits of that against Laytner's newest complaint about the smoke alarm that keeps going off as he strides down the empty hallway, shoes clipping against the floor.

Except one of the office doors is wide open, light spilling out into the dark hallway. Berkley pauses, takes a detour, and swings into the room.

Someone in jeans and a sweater is rummaging through Adams' desk.

Berkley clears his throat. "Excuse me."

Luckily enough, it's Adams' head that pops up. "S-sir!" he stammers. "You startled me—sneaking around like that, jeez!"

"I could say the same," says Berkley wryly. He crosses his arms and leans against the door. "Lose something, Adams?"

"My apartment key," admits Adams, running a hand through his hair. His lips are still pale from the winter cold. "I took it off this morning to lend my car keys to Ted, but then forgot to put it back on. I was out all night, so I didn't realize until—well, they're right here, anyway. No harm done."

"Indeed." Berkley studies him. He's seen Adams in his work outfits before, of course—plenty of style, a natural taste for fine things and the best labels. Berkley knows his salary is as bad as every other cop's in the city, so he must be saving the cash better than his fellows to afford such things. But the Adams of tonight is sporting worn jeans and a sweater that's been stretched enough that it's dipping down on one shoulder. The hem is a mass of frayed threads.

Adams must know what he's thinking. He flushes, crossing his own arms as if to ward off the considering stare. "I don't want to ruin my nice stuff. And it's cold."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to," Adams replies snippily. He fishes through his drawer a bit more, ears red, and makes an "ah-ha" sound under his breath. The key, presumably to his apartment, is slipped into his pocket. He straightens and makes as if to leave. "If you'll excuse me, sir—"

"Hey." Goddammit. He hadn't intended to say anything, but Adams looks so pathetic as he passes that Berkley can't help it—his hand reaches out without his permission and jerks Adams' chin towards the light. "You're going to cry because I looked at you?"

Adams stares at him. Then, coming to, he yanks himself back and out of Berkley's grasp. "No!" he replies hotly. "I'm not crying at all, you—you absolute—"

Berkley smirks. "Right. Your eyes are squinting."

"Shut up, why should I care if you don't like how I look—"

"I never said that, detective," says Berkley mildly.

"You didn't _have_ to!"

Berkley steps forward, purposefully filling the door so that Adams has nowhere to go but back, as well. Adams stiffens, his foot falling back. "Hm," Berkley muses. "So you went out tonight, looking like that. Did someone say something to you?"

"Sir, it's none of your—"

"Come on, _JJ_ , did it upset you that much? After all, what I think should mean nothing to you—what's the real problem?" He reaches out and touches the edge of Adams' desk, the pressure light but visibly firm, and traps the detective between himself and the stationary blockade. "Are you worried no one finds you desirable now? Did you try to come onto someone and they rejected you? Is that it? Or were you just ignored? You don't seem to have any luck keeping attentions, after all."

Adams gapes at him. No doubt horrified by his perceptiveness, Berkley thinks in vague amusement. But then, Adams is an easy card to read. Berkley likes Adams, most days, because he annoys Laytner and does his work well. Sometimes he even gets Parker off his ass long enough to do some real footwork. And as for the final reason, well—

"W-wait," says Adams as his hip strikes the desk edge, and then Berkley presses against him and kisses him.

Adams' reaction isn't sweet blankness like from Ryo, nor Diana's impish straightforwardness. Rather, he freezes and then thaws within a moment's time, fingers dragging into Berkley's collar as if to keep him in place. He tastes like some fruity drink Berkley would never buy, and smells like gunpowder, bar counter, and cologne. Berkley demands entrance to Adams' mouth with his tongue, and it's given, open and immediate and hot and wet. They both know how to kiss like they're devouring something. Adams is too small to fit neatly into his arms, but that just means Berkley can engulf him completely, owning him through those pliant lips and the small of his back as Berkley roughly slides his palm across the skin waiting there.

It's so good that Berkley is tempted, if only for a second, to take it a step farther. He's sure Adams would look amazing draped across the surface of the desk, panting and legs spread, squirming under his hands. But then Berkley sighs mentally, remembers the dinner reservations that have pissed him off, and pulls away.

Adams inhales loudly and sways against him. "Um," he says, wide-eyed.

Berkley steps back and pats his shoulder. "You look good," he informs him. "You're nice to look at, Adams. And if anything, that little number you have on makes it even worse. Trust me, go out and give it one more try with someone who doesn't have their head up their ass in denial of what they are. Just come into work on time tomorrow after you've bagged your man."

"I—are you—did you just—"

"Good night, Adams." And Berkley turns away, hands shoved in his pockets and faintly annoyed now that his body is thrumming and alive. Screw work. Diana should still be on her second drink at the Flamingo, there's no reason he can't catch her in the act of ogling the waiters before the food even cools. She'll have a good laugh over this one. And if he's lucky, it'll be an early night with plenty of time left over for Berkley to get Diana into some casual wear, too.

He's always liked the way her breasts almost show when she's wearing her old t-shirts, after all.

(The next morning, Berkley is running a little later than planned and he runs into JJ at the entrance of the station. It's not just the cold that makes the detective go red. But the sheepish grin he gets is well worth it, and besides, Berkley likes it when his team runs smooth and doesn't take breaks to bitch about their love lives. That, and he meant what he said—the kid really is something to look at. Fine things, indeed.)


	5. Second Time's the Charm

Ted's figured out the pattern by now, so he knows an Epic JJ Adams Break-Up when he sees it.

The first indicator is JJ, of course. He'll come in in shoes that haven't been polished, shoulders drooping and seemingly resigned to something very unpleasant. If he looks like he's been sobbing, then Ted knows it's going to be normal by noon. If he doesn't, things are actually worse and it's time to duck behind the desk. JJ is a super great shot and any little thing might piss him off on a day like that. The worst of the break-ups mean he's going to actually leave his vest unbuttoned.

The second indicator (indicators, really) is the rest of the team. If Dee's hovering, Drake starts looking guilty, and Ryo purses his lips, it's definitely all gone to shit. Ted knows the drill. So when JJ comes waltzing in on Monday with his vest completely undone, Ted makes a subtle break for the coffee machine (only to find, to his dismay, that it's broken again).

It must suck so hard to be gay, he figures. Or maybe it just sucks to be JJ. Either way, it just really sucks.

Normally Ted only pipes down and makes sure not to step on any toes or say anything stupid on an Epic JJ Adams Break-Up day. That's harder than it sounds. But no matter what it looks like, Ted's actually a swell guy, and he feels poorly for his friend. Ted's no stranger to the choose-'em-and-lose-'em game. He's just lost his twenty-third girlfriend not two weeks ago, and while the sting has faded, he's irritable as all hell that he's been off on his mark ever since. It's like women can smell the shame come off of him. He may as well hold up a huge, neon-lit sign: Can't Keep a Girl for Longer than a Month.

He doesn't actually think it through, otherwise he might've gone with his first impulse and just bought JJ some flowers or something. JJ likes flowers. JJ's kind of girly like that. But Ted opens his mouth and goes with the second impulse, mostly because it sounds less dumb to say aloud and damn, he can't stand that pitiful face on JJ of all people—

"Hey, JJ, let's have a guy's night out, just you an' me."

The office stops dead. JJ blinks at him, jaw dropped, papers still half-shuffled in his fingers. Drake is halfway through swallowing a gulp of coffee and can't seem to finish it, his eyes bulging. Dee's already—

"A guy's night out?" demands Dee, suspicious. He slaps his hand on Ted's desk. "Hold it, you wanna go out with JJ?"

"What? No, I'm straight! Jesus, Dee!"

"Well, that's what we thought about Drake." From beyond Dee's shoulder, Drake gets that furtive, tired, guilt-stricken expression he gets whenever someone mentions his past relationship with JJ. "And look what happened there."

"I have guy's nights out all the time with _you_ ," Ted points out. "I'm pretty sure you haven't turned me gay, Laytner."

"Yeah, but JJ's the expert at that."

JJ's found himself a wide, ear-splitting grin in the time that Ted's been distracted. He pushes past Dee, crowding into Ted's desk and leaning into his personal space. "Stop it, Dee- _senpai_. Ted's just being nice. You know, like friends do? Aren't you, Ted?"

Ted nods emphatically. "Exactly! That's me. Nice guy. Good friend. No designs whatsoever, nope."

"See?" JJ says smugly. Dee rolls his eyes.

"It's just that Dee, you've got Ryo now—and Drake's hitched, like Marty—and that just leaves you an' me, JJ! We're the only bucks left in the forest," Ted says mournfully. JJ makes a strangled, cackling sound. Dee just cackles.

"Sounds great," manages JJ after a minute. He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Um… Friday night? You pick the place, I'll pick you up."

"Right!" Ted's mind is already racing. He's sure he can find a gay-friendly bar in his address book. It's not like Dee hasn't already broken them all in. "You do that. Trust me, with my help, we're both gonna score."

Ryo tsks at them, but all Ted can see is how happy JJ is, even if just for a little while. Now that, he decides, worked a hell of a lot better n' flowers.

* * *

Friday night, and JJ actually looks fairly sharp when he pulls up to Ted's apartment. Ted's running a little late—he slicks his hair back as he piles into the car seat, apologizing for the wait. Next to JJ, he feels a little out-classed. He can't eat with all that fancy material, Ted assures himself, and wouldn't that just explain so much about the guy's slim physique?

They go to the Corner Tap, which is closer to the… er, more prideful part of the city than Ted normally goes. But there are still girls there, and JJ's bound to find someone at least as dashing as Dee, or Drake, or any number of his other conquests. Ted gestures excitedly as he relates his past tales of pool championships and beer Ping Pong to JJ, who listens with a peculiar look on his face that Ted eventually recognizes as the one he wears when he's trying not to laugh. Ted informs him that he just looks like he's going to burp. Then JJ does laugh.

For the first two hours, it looks like it might work out after all, despite Ted's initial trepidation. The bar hasn't picked up its usual nightly rush yet, so they sit down to wait at a booth. JJ can toss back shots just as well as the next guy, and they trade stories of horrific make-out interruptions, each vying for the most cringe-worthy. Ted wins by a narrow margin—only, JJ informs him, because the thought of eating a girl out is just "gross, gross, _mother of all_ gross!"

"What? So? Eating a guy's—well, that's gross, too!"

"Wash your mouth out!"

"Wash yours, dammit!"

"I will!" And then JJ chugs the rest of his pint, looking pink around the edges, and Ted giggles wildly and clutches his sides as he falls back against the booth seat. That's really funny.

"Teddy, you're _great_ ," drawls JJ after their next round, elongating his words with a cute finish. Ted throws his arms up.

"I am great. Yes! And I'm gonna go get a girl. You want one, Jemmy?"

"I want…" JJ pauses, wrinkling his nose. "Hmm."

"How 'bout that one?" Ted points to a dolled-up blond. JJ peers at her.

"Ooh."

"Yeah?"

"I want her hat."

"Yeah, so do I!" Ted thinks about that, then. "I'll take her home an' get her hat for you."

"You're so sweet."

"I know." Ted preens, unable to help himself. JJ smiles all mist-like at him and then puts a finger to his lips, shushing.

"You know," he whispers, shamefaced, "I didn't actually break up with—with what's his name, the guy I was dating, him—because of anything, y'know. It was workin' but I was just… all screwed-up."

Ted blinks and sways forward. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." JJ nods, serious. "He was real nice an' nice to me. But I broke up with him, anyway. No real reason, I just…"

"Yeah, I totally get you, dude. Sometimes," Ted elaborates, waving his hand decisively, "sometimes… yeah."

"You see?"

"Mm-hmm."

Ted slaps his hands down and announces he's doing to get them another round, and then they're going to go chat up ladies and ladies' hats. That's where it goes wrong. By the time he comes back, he has to pull a burly, purple-faced guy with a Cubs shirt off of JJ, and the bar kicks them out for brawling even though only one punch was thrown (although JJ admits later, he kicked the guy in the balls at least twice, and he'll never have children again). Ted practically carries JJ to the car. JJ doesn't have any bruises because even smashed he knows enough martial arts to dodge a few brutish clips. But he curls up in the seat all silent and confused, and Ted has to call Dee because he's kind of terrified he's broken JJ by exposing him to more heartless, homophobic bastards. Because sure, JJ can take care of himself, but he was with Ted so he wouldn't have to.

Dee curses at them both for a while and tells them to come over. Ryo force-feeds them tea. JJ sobers up enough to announce that straight men take a little winking much too personally, and Ted sighs as he mentally scratches off the Corner Tap for places he'll be able to show his face again.

(The next morning, Ted leaves JJ begonias on his desk, and JJ kisses his cheek and tells Ted that he's a great guy, but honestly, if he wanted a date he just had to ask. Ted sputters, and everyone laughs, and Ted feels better because JJ is winking at him and all might be okay with the world—and JJ keeps touching the flowers like they might disappear, shy and touched and yeah, maybe he should've just done that in the beginning, after all.)


	6. Lasagna, a Lover's Dish

When JJ kicks his desk at work, put out and overly frustrated because the copy machine is jammed again, Marty just rolls his eyes. He recognizes this dance pretty well by now. Apparently, he leans from the resulting hubbub, this mess is casualty from Corey Beldfast—six foot, a lover of air guitar riffs, maker of fantastic waffles, and the kind of guy who felt like making out with his _other_ boyfriend was allowed.

After everyone's exited, he picks up his coat and walks on by. "You got dinner plans?" he asks JJ, who's left behind along with him. JJ frowns at the file open but unread before him, sighs, and shakes his head.

"Yeah, I know I plan to eat."

"Good enough. C'mon, my wife makes a mean lasagna."

JJ comes along—more out of curiosity than any real desire for lasagna, Marty figures. He's not the kind of guy that likes to take work home, especially breathing. But he's getting a little sick of watching the guys do their best to help (or screw up) the kid's love life, and while this might not do much better, at least JJ gets a free meal out of it. Marty's daughter is going to love the company, anyway. And this is one man Marty is satisfied won't do anything with her coy, unpracticed flirting.

Teenagers. Sigh.

"You have a lovely house," is the first thing JJ remarks to Marty's wife, which is enough to get him past the living room. Marty's always fingered JJ for a charmer, but he's never really seen him in action—with Dee, it'd always been outright obsession instead of the subtle way of things. JJ proves him right by kissing Anna's hand and then grinning crookedly at Laura, Marty's daughter.

Laura exclaims that she loves his suit cut.

JJ exclaims he loves her earrings.

The rest of the evening follows fairly the same. JJ is a polite but hardy eater, and he makes all the perfect compliments a guest should. Anna adores him, demanding silly work stories about Marty that her husband has never told her, and JJ fulfills every demand with a dramatic flare. Marty finally loses the last of his pride with the second helping of pasta. The garlic bread had helped him stay in there for a while.

Laura chatters away. She and JJ are a bit alike, Marty has to reluctantly agree—although he's not sure if that bodes well for the future. Watching them together, talking with their hands and eyes almost more than their mouths, makes him feel old. But that doesn't mean he hates it. In fact, he finds himself grinning.

After dinner's finished, Marty gets his coat again and kisses Anna on the cheek. "I'll be back after I drop JJ off at home," he says, nudging her hip. Laura is busy trying to make eyes at JJ, who is busy trying to hide his amusement. "Leave the dishes, I'll get to 'em when I get back."

"He's a good boy," she tells him, smiling in that shy way of hers. "You bring him again, okay, Marty?"

"Sure will, babe."

Then it's out into the cold, crisp air of February, and JJ has his hands shoved in his pockets as he follows Marty to the car, lost in thoughts. Marty starts it up and smacks the dashboard to get the heater going. "You know," he says conversationally, his breath billowing out in a cloud, "I only dated two ladies before I met Anna. I was just barely a man. Married her quicker than I even knew how to love her."

JJ glances at him, unreadable but friendly. "She's a wonderful woman."

"Hell yeah, she is," Marty agrees, cheerful. "And I'm a lucky son of a bitch. I'm well aware. I knew she was the one from the moment I saw her, and to this damn day, I couldn't love her any less than I did right then. If anything, I love her a heck of a lot more. That's the wonder of it."

JJ smiles. "Are you tryin' to tell me something?"

"Nah. I ain't got any advice for you. But I didn't come here to rub it in, either." Marty taps the steering wheel. "It's like this, JJ. I believe there really is just one. No one else is gonna do except that one. And sometimes that means it's real hard to get to them, because there's a lotta people in the world who're lookin' for their one, too, and that means a lotta mistakes. I just wanted to tell you that."

The smile is more real now. "Thanks, Marty- _senpai_."

"Man, you need to knock that honorific shit out. We're all men here. There ain't nothing different between you and me."

"Marty," says JJ.

"Better." Marty starts the engine, feeling proud. "Now don't you forget to keep your chin up. Anna says I gotta invite you back for dinner again, too, and my baby girl's gonna be bugging me about designer labels for weeks now. At least you'll know what to say. Jesus. Teenagers."

JJ doesn't say much for the rest of the drive, but then, Marty figures he's given him something to think about. It's not really hope—maybe the opposite, in fact—but it's something else. When he drops JJ off, his friend thanks him again in hushed tones. It's begun to snow. Big, fat snowflakes that melt as soon as they hit the windshield.

When JJ walks off towards his apartment door, he disappears into that white curtain blotted with shadows. Marty watches him go, says a prayer, and then backs up to leave things as they are.

(He's been waiting for JJ to flail out again, like he used to, but it's as if Drake's wedding stole some of that exuberance away. Maybe that's why Marty did it. Or maybe it's like he said, there's mistakes to be made and it's so easy to forget until someone reminds you—there is no end, only the search and a trembling set of hands when it's done.)


	7. Jemmy and Jemmy

Four years later, Drake has a baby boy.

The smokers are outside in the hospital parking lot, sucking on cigars and slapping the new father on the back. JJ watches them through the window for a while and then steals the crossword booklet from Ryo. When he gets bored of it (fourteen down, an OPEC country, whatever), he stretches and decides to get another glimpse of the Parker baby without the ruckus that initially surrounded it. Also, without Drake's wife, who is sweet enough but still gets on JJ's nerves.

"I'm goin' to see my namesake," JJ tells Ryo. Ryo chuckles and waves him off.

The nursery observation window is smudged. Too many fingerprints, too many foreheads leaning against it, relatives eager to be as close as possible to the bundles. JJ peers into it with caution and a select distance. There—second in the first row, bundled in blue and waving fists about aimlessly. It's going to take after Drake, JJ sighs to himself. No direction and no idea of what it's stepping into at any given moment.

The idea makes him a little warm inside.

"You might've been named after me out of guilt," JJ informs the brat, "but it's a lot better than what Drake was initially planning. Honestly, _Bradley_? You would've gotten beat up your first day of kindergarten."

"I almost hate to ask," says a voice behind him, "what the kid's name is now."

JJ turns, eyebrow already arching. "Oh?"

The man grins. His teeth are still white but there's a cigarette packet in his shirt pocket—a new smoker, JJ figures, or maybe a cheater who likes to use whitening strips. JJ gives him a cursory glance of two seconds: broad shoulders, shaggy black hair, bitten fingernails, sneakers with mismatches laces, and dark eyes that crinkle impishly with his smile. The cursory glance expands into a honest to god check out.

"Pass the test?" the guy asks. JJ hides his own grin—definitely gay.

"Maybe. And I'll have you know, the kid's name is Jemmy."

"Oh, he's getting his ass kicked later for that one."

"It's a _great_ name."

"Yeah," the man agrees. "It's very unique. It suits you."

JJ's other eyebrow shoots up. "I'll take that as an indirect compliment."

"You should. My name's Aaron. It's not very unique."

"Oh, I don't know," says JJ. "It could grow on a person."

"My new niece's name is Samantha. I tried to convince them to go for Aaron, but you know—everyone's a critic."

"She would've been the one beating people up in kindergarten," predicts JJ, and that makes Aaron the New Smoker laugh. His belly flutters, something innate slowly stretching back into place.

He has no idea what he's doing. He just knows that he suddenly, desperately, achingly wants this time to work.

* * *

So naturally, it doesn't.

"You should never take love advice from your Uncle JJ," he tells the baby, jostling the bundle cradled in his arms. Baby Jemmy giggles and squeals and makes JJ feel loved, which is exactly what he needs right now. "Trust me, you'll end up a spinster and an old maid, and then Drake will kill me."

"I certainly will if you don't stop calling my son an old maid," Drake remarks, coughing from the doorway. He holds up the bottle of formula, reheated for consumption. "You want the honors?"

"Ooh, please. Gimme, gimme, gimme."

Drake hands it over obediently. JJ coos at the baby, tickling his feet, and then offers the nub. Jemmy takes it eagerly. He really does take after Drake in his laid back nature—it seems anybody could hold him, feed him, and play with him, and he'd be happy as a duck in water. Although he does love his mother's hair.

"That's it," murmurs JJ, wrapping himself in the scent of chalky milk and baby powder and cotton. "Such a good boy. Yes, you are."

Drake sits in the chair opposite of them, straddling the seat backwards. He leans on the back support, his arms folded, watching his son and ex-lover together. JJ lets him be. It's been long enough that being with Drake doesn't hurt anymore, although sometimes it still gnaws at JJ when he wakes up alone at night. But he doesn't let it come between their friendship, which is somehow deeper and more honest for their past issues.

"I guess Aaron was a bad apple, huh?"

JJ sighs, studying the child in his arms with practiced control. "I don't want to talk about it, Drake."

"JJ."

"What am I supposed to say?" JJ pauses. "I blew it. I'm no good at this. I'm done, Drake."

"Aw, JJ."

"No. I just—for a while, I don't want it to be this hard," he whispers, and he has to blink because Jemmy is swimming in and out of focus. His face hurts. His eyes burn. Being with Drake right now is a bad idea, but he'd needed Jemmy, needed something that would fit into his arms and maybe clog up the hole in his chest for a while. "I thought it was going to work together like clockwork. It serves me right. Maybe I just don't try hard enough. Maybe after Dee—maybe I gave up after that and didn't even know it, 'cause I'm sure failing everyone now. I don't even deserve to be loved when it does happen, I think."

"JJ," says Drake. He sounds shocked. "JJ—babe, what _happened_?"

Drake hasn't called JJ that in years. Not since—well, it doesn't matter. JJ swallows hard and pokes the baby's nose, unable to smile even as Jemmy squeals and reaches for his finger. "Drake," he says, choked up, "I really love him."

There is silence.

"You mean… Aaron?" Drake asks, carefully. He's never gotten the hang of liking anyone JJ dates.

JJ nods, unable to look him in the eye. It somehow seem shameful. He hasn't said this much of someone ever since Drake, and now he even means it, actually _means_ it. "I think so. It's just—you don't know him, Drake, he was going to be different. I wanted him to be different. He…"

"He what?"

"He can't cook," JJ says tearfully. "H-he's so stupid about baseball, too. Always watching games. And he buys ballet tickets on the sly because he likes to go with his mom, and… Jesus, Drake! He brought over some half-dead plants to my apartment, and he tells me I'm g-gorgeous, and he's almost too young but he's so good to me, like I always wanted, and… Oh god, Drake! _Why do I always lose them?_ "

"JJ, don't—don't you dare—" and Drake's kneeling in front of him and the baby, clasping his knee with one hand and reaching towards JJ's wet cheek with the other. Fingers, familiar and callused, slide against his jaw. JJ clutches at them, unable to help himself as he weeps.

"I loved him! I loved him so much. His stupid Sunday comics and the way he drinks milk from the carton—I wanted to wake up to that e-every morning, I wanted that so much, he even c-caught this moth in the bedroom and shooed it out the w-window and—I want that, Drake, I love his stomach and his voice when it's scratchy f-from sleep and his bad habits—"

"Babe, babe, babe," soothes Drake, hushing him. "I know. S'okay."

Jemmy starts to whine and that, oddly enough, is what breaks JJ from his panic. He calms almost absolutely at once, bouncing the baby in his arms. Drake watches him, wide-eyed and worried to the point of franticness, but JJ has a slight smile despite his red eyes. "It's okay," he tells Drake, feeling bad about his outburst. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that."

"It's okay. Are you—?"

"I'm done."

"That's not," Drake says gently, "what I was going to ask."

JJ stares at him, thoughtful. Then he says, "I suppose, in the end there was only ever going to be you, Drake. Don't take that badly—I'm not trying to make you feel awful. But maybe I should just accept that and deal with what I have. I'm tired, you know," he adds, "of being lonely."

They talk for a bit longer. Enough that JJ has pieces of himself to pull around him when he leaves, and Drake watches him go and feels as though he's falling down a great and terribly long well. When he finally hits bottom, something snaps, and he goes to the phone book that his wife's left beneath the piano bench. She's a piano teacher. She's made Drake more himself than anyone ever has, even JJ.

He finds a name, and a number.

He tells Aaron a story about JJ that he knows JJ will never be able to tell. He breaks JJ's trust in him for the second time, and tells Aaron everything that JJ has said to him those few hours ago. He tells Aaron all about Drake Parker, too, and why baby Jemmy is named after his makeshift uncle.

"You'll never find someone like him," Drake says haltingly. "You'll always wake up and wonder where he's gone, if it's the bathroom or kitchen or—and maybe you'll still be happy somehow, but you'll know. That he's not there, and that he's alone."

Aaron says nothing for a long time. Then, "Why?"

Drake searches for an answer. "Because—because he deserves it. The whole kit and caboodle. Love and fuckin' sharing it all, finding kids, a stupid colored cat, garden gnomes, I don't know, I don't know—whatever he wants. I want him to have that shit."

"Shut up."

"But you—"

"I've gotta go," says Aaron, and then there's nothing but the dial tone. Drake goes to Jemmy's room and buries his face in his hands and shakes.

* * *

JJ has thrown away his Jimmy Stewart tapes ages ago. But he still eats ice cream, his nose running and his cheeks painful from cramping up, and he still curls up on the sofa in a scrambled nest of pillows and blankets. He's not old, but he's not young. He's attractive, but he's haunted. He's got the best friends you could ask for, but he's not going to do this again, not anymore.

His heart can't take this.

"I've been rejected after all," he whispers.

And then the doorbell rings. Twice. In quick succession. JJ shivers and buries himself in the comforter, willing Drake or Dee or Ted or whoever it is to go away. But they're not biting—they start banging at the door, loud angry thumps that rattle the knob and frame. JJ startles, eyeing the door with nervous irritation.

"Stop it!" he yells. "Just go away!"

"JJ, _open the door_!"

Aaron. His breathing stops dead in his chest, and JJ is already on the other side of the room, hands quivering like crazy as he undoes the latch, and unlocks the bolt, and god, why is he doing this, this is going to be so bad—

Aaron throws the door inward. It crashes against the wall with a bang. JJ registers tiny details from him—the ugly polo shirt, his narrowed eyes, the lack of cigarettes shoved in his pockets, an untied lace—and then suddenly he's caught up in someone's arms, teeth clacking against his own in a rough and reckless kiss.

Oh. Oh. JJ sobs into his mouth and wraps his arms around Aaron's neck, unwilling and unable to let go.

It's Aaron who finally drags himself away, wrenching from JJ's lips and inhaling sharply for air. His fingers are putting marks into JJ's back. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. "JJ," rasps Aaron, "you're an idiot."

"I'm so sorry—"

"I'm not goin' anywhere. You hear me?" Aaron bites at his shoulder, harsh and real. Then he kisses it. It's not a dream. "You got me. And I'm gonna yell at you sometimes when I'm in a bad mood. And I'm gonna say stupid things. And you're going to drive me up a wall, especially when I'm trying to quit smoking and everything's being really fucking annoying—but you're still mine, and I'm yours, and I'm still in love with you."

He's waited all his life to hear that. Now that he has it, JJ has no idea what to say. He clutches, at sea, to Aaron's shoulders, his heart in his throat and all the world obliterated. This feeling is overwhelming.

He's waited his entire life for this. He really has.

Aaron pulls him close, kissing his forehead. "I love you," he mumbles against JJ's skin. "I love you. You're crazy and handsome, and you've _got_ to stop leaving bullets in the silverware drawer, but I love you."

"Okay," JJ gasps. "I can—I can do that—"

"Oh Christ. No, never mind, don't you dare stop." And then Aaron is kissing him again, and it's perfect, and it's perfect, and he's going to cry and he's going to scream and he's going to—

Like the first raindrop for a seed, something in JJ awakens again. He hurls himself as far as he can get into Aaron's arms, and throws his head back, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and he'd forgotten— _joy_.

And like an answer, something in Aaron's eyes softens, and lights up, and finds what it's been looking for.

(And that's how they spend the rest of their lives together: tackling each other in the mornings, burning the chicken in the oven, waiting up at night when JJ's on the job, going to ballet with Aaron's mother, redecorating the apartment, eating Anna's lasagna, making love on the kitchen counter, singing off-key in the shower to annoy each other, fishing bullets out of the silverware, playing with Jemmy on the weekends, and breaking up every other day just so they can get back together again for dinner. It's a great excuse to get each other flowers, anyway, and to eat ice cream out of the tub.)


End file.
